


Unbarred

by entanglednow



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Object Insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words only complicate things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbarred

  
They never actually speak about it, they never name it out loud. It starts as a half-formed thought, that slowly gains detail between the words of their conversation.

The possibility of it grows naturally, somehow. From a discussion about the scope of their powers, their willingness to be adventurous, and the need for self-control. Erik's eyes darkening under every glass he empties, something like amusement, but harder, greedier. Charles can see the shape of it. He can feel the weight of it, curiosity shifting into purpose, where it twists itself into intent, into _lust_ behind Erik's smile. Charles can feel the warmth of it, and can't help but take a breath, and want it too. Agreement, curiousity, an echo of desire.

Erik thinks it over his glass, and Charles says yes. It's thick round just a little too much alcohol, shaky and daring. Erik makes him want to be daring. Erik has the marvellous - but rather unnerving - ability to convince you to do something with a smile. To make you want the things you've never dreamed you could want, never thought about. He makes you want to push at your limits, and theirs are so high, so very high.

Charles sometimes wonders if he should double check the scope of Erik's powers. Investigate whether his powers of persuasion are entirely within normal. Or perhaps it's a failing of his own, his own attachment, fascination, _attraction._ Charles's own willingness to _bend_.

He definitely says yes.

He follows Erik - or perhaps he simply lets Erik lead them both, a small distinction but important - to his room. Taking the glasses, but leaving the bottle behind.

They still don't speak, once inside the room. Even though it colours everything, the willingness, the anticipation. Erik tense and aggressive with Charles's unvoiced permission. It's broadcast with a shameless sort of intensity, when Erik bites at the hard edge of his jaw, and wrestles his shirt over his shoulders, untangles it from his wrists and tugs it free.

They leave a trail of clothes between the door and the bed, not all of them fit to wear again. There's a laugh there, even if there aren't any words. Erik's enthusiasm, Charles's amusement. Charles doesn't have second thoughts, stretched out on Erik's bed, arms thrown over his head. Watching Erik finish stripping with a calm, elegant efficiency, listening to the slow, repetitive want in his head, that isn't words so much as purpose, snatches of emotion and colour that will occasionally coalesce into pictures, luscious and pornographic.

Erik waits at the foot of the bed though, fingers curled around Charles's ankle, unwilling to go into this without words.

"Charles -"

"Yes," Charles says immediately. He understands other people feel the need to ask, to make certain. He can't help but wonder what it's like to never be able to look, to never be able to _make sure_.

There's oil in the drawer, and then oil on the sheets, and on Erik's long fingers. Charles is hard before two have slipped their way inside him. Which reassures Erik more than his wordless permission.

The metal is silver, or steel - he doesn't know which - it shifts to Erik's desires like it's alive - reshaping itself however he sees fit with a beautiful, fluid sort of obedience. Charles presses his toes into Erik's ribs in a way that could either be impatience, or a desperate desire to ground himself, to touch what's familiar. He's not entirely sure himself.

Erik doesn't ask if he trusts him, doesn't ask if he's sure. He reads something in Charles's face that makes him smile, quick and sharp. Then lets his hands slide up Charles's thighs, pushes them open. His fingers press in and stay there, curved round the muscle. But Charles feels the slow, solid push, where he's stretched and slick. It feels like one long endless slide, metal changing in width and weight as it pushes him open, eases inside. It makes him pull in an untidy breath and groan, feet pressed into the bed. Erik doesn’t look down, not once, but watches his face instead. He doesn't look the picture of control any more. His fingertips are pressed white into Charles's spread thighs, teeth clenched. But there's a careful, determined calmness to his movements, that Charles is both grateful for and tempted to prod at. To let water through the cracks in the dam. For all that part of him is almost afraid - of how much Erik wants, the force of it. But every twist and shift of metal turns his thoughts to toffee. It's barely warm, unforgivably hard, alien inside him - every so often just a little too big to be comfortable.

"Control, Erik," he says thinly.

"My control is perfect." There's a bright, savage smile, a twist and a push that drives all the air out of Charles's throat. "How's yours?"

"You don't play fair." Charles's voice sounds like a broken version of itself, flawed, cracked all the way through.

"I never pretended I did." Erik stretches over him, the weight of him on top of him, and inside him, hands spreading his thighs wide enough to fit himself between. The kiss is softer than the words, than the press of his hands, than the push, and push of metal inside him. Relentless. Charles can feel it, or the echo of it, transformation achingly slow, torturous in a way that has nothing to do with pain. Every inch of his skin is hot, cock leaking where his stomach twitches and shudders.

Erik's hands slide down, thumbs pulling him open around the sliding push of metal. Charles accepts the new harder pressure, rolls his head to the side, damp hair pressed into the curve of his own arm. Erik's exhale shakes out of him, and Charles realises, before he looks, that Erik can feel it.

"You can feel that," he says, raw, breathless.

"I can feel everything." Erik's voice is a rush of smugness and lust, and if Charles hadn't been concentrating on _everything,_ he wouldn't have heard the cracks in it. His hands twist together in the sheets over his head, hips lifting when there's another push, gentle but firm, that makes his whole body clench. Punishment, he thinks, for the tease. Though also reward for - he's not sure, Erik is still marvelling at his acceptance, his participation. At the way he looks like this, opened up and filled, at the way he feels inside. There's something greedy, and just a fraction ashamed in his own appreciation of it. Something in him which still assumes Charles is doing this for him, just for him.

"I'm not," Charles assures him, accepts the growl that comes from his snooping, the twist that makes him rock his hips and gasp. It's too much, too intense, his heel drags in the sheets, thighs tensing, stomach clenching. He knows the dangers of letting it all go, of letting it take him. He grasps at the edges of his orgasm, holds it, holds it even while it feels like his entire body is unravelling.

He can feel the drum of his own heartbeat, the prickling drift of air across his skin. He's empty, and Erik's teeth are working their way slowly across the damp, sticky skin above his softening cock, breath hot, mind a rush of tangled control and want so dark and rich that it's almost liquid. It's close enough to touch, close enough to drown in, if Charles dared.

He's too breathless to speak. He allows himself the slightest push from his mind, a suggestion rather than command, though strong enough in its intensity that Erik is rising between his thighs, elbows looped under his knees, lifting and tilting, and then pushing into him, easily, one long, hot drive which Charles groans under. Erik pins his hands over his head, nails dug tight into the back of his hand. The pace is a careful sort of roughness, legs shifting only to perfect angle and depth, leaving Charles's voice as a tangle in his throat, and his spine melted string.

Charles thinks, in a sharp, worrying moment of uncertainty, that it bears too much resemblance to exactly what he'd wanted. There's a danger, always a danger, he'd warned Erik, with so much skin touching. Charles's knows how to want so much _louder_ than anyone else. But the sound of his name, gravel-deep, affectionate and just a little vicious, is absolutely Erik. He tangles their fingers together, tilts his hips and demands, in words, skin and pushes of consciousness. Until he feels Erik tighten, and then snap.

Erik comes to a shuddering stop, breath hissing through his teeth and Charles is briefly dragged into the burning white tangle of his mind, a dizzying feedback loop of pleasure. It would be so easy, so very easy, to become addicted to it. Erik's face ends up buried in his throat, skin burning. They're tangled so tightly together that it feels almost too hot to breathe, and Charles aches in a way that's going to be unpleasant later, but right now seems perfectly right.

  



End file.
